Elegy
by Maddie Rose
Summary: She loves him, but does he see her, or the ghost of his dead wife? Is she merely Orlaith's shadow, condemned to care for a man who cannot love her in return? Bard/OC ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

**~ Prologue ~**

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**A/N: So I've edited this first chapter a bit, adding both of Bard's memories of Orlaith and also adding the dates. **

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Third Age, 2921-2922

_Bard had been sixteen years old when he had first met Orlaith. It had been during the Midsummer Festival, where the merchants all came to sell their goods and entertainers were paid a pretty sum to venture into Laketown. Orlaith was the daughter of a silk merchant, with hair like spun gold and cornflower blue eyes that crinkled when she smiled. She was a year younger than Bard, and a good deal more daring. _

_Bard had been foolish, not daring. His father was a bargeman, and that was likely all he would be in life, too. It was not Orlaith's fairness that struck him, or the way she draped her father's silks around her neck and spun in circles. It was the mischievous glint in her eyes, the bold smile that adorned her lips. There were plenty of other girls, but Orlaith seemed to shine like the sun._

_"What are you selling?" It was the third day of the festival before Bard gathered the confidence to approach Orlaith. She pursed her lips and regarded him with a contemptuous expression, a grubby boy dressed in too-big clothes._

_"Silks. What does it look like?"_

_"Can I see them?" Bard wasn't interested in the silks at all, and Orlaith's disinterest only served to spur him on. He reached out to touch a blue one, the same colour blue as her eyes, but she smacked his hand._

_"Hands off," Orlaith frowned._

_"If you tell me your name, I'll leave you alone," Bard said boldly. He released the silk and although Orlaith continued to watch him imperiously, her eyes were no longer narrowed in suspicion. She tossed her blonde braid over her shoulder, folding her arms._

_"Orlaith. What's yours?"_

_"Bard," he replied enthusiastically._

_Orlaith scoffed. "Bard. That's a silly name. Do you even know what a bard is? Can you play any instruments?"_

_"No," Bard admitted, his confidence faltering slightly at her sneer, "Why? What about you, Orlaith? I bet you can play half a dozen."_

_That caught her off-guard. Orlaith bit her lip, hands running over her father's silks. They both looked up as an acrobat cartwheeled past. Bard wondered how they managed to keep balance on the bridges let alone somersaulting over boats. He wished he could learn their tricks one day._

_"No, I can't play any instruments," Orlaith stated after the distraction had passed them by. "Is that why you came to bother me? To see if I play an instrument?"_

_"I wanted to find out your name." Bard shrugged his shoulders, feeling rather pleased with himself for accomplishing at least that. Orlaith. Her name was Orlaith. Now he knew who to ask for, if she disappeared and he wanted to see her again. _

_"I know yours too!" Orlaith shot back as Bard made his gleeful departure. She might be a bit of a snob, and she may not have warmed to him yet, but Bard was determined that he would at least get to see Orlaith aim that lovely, mischievous smile at him._

* * *

_Bard had been seventeen years old when he first kissed Orlaith. He felt like he had waited the entire year for her to return, for that mischievous smile he obsessed over to no end. No matter how much Bard attempted to assure himself that it was a foolish fascination, there was something about Orlaith that drew him in. So when the Midsummer Festival came around once more, Bard was both eager to see Orlaith and frightened that she would not come._

_She did, and although there was still that haughtiness about her, Orlaith seemed to have matured over the year that had passed – physically as well as emotionally. She and Bard talked often, and he helped her sell her father's silks. They formed a friendship, and more than that, a bond. It was that year that Bard managed to earn one of the smiles he had been striving so hard for._

_"I worried that you wouldn't come back." The two of them were sitting in a small boat that bobbed on the water. It was close to midnight and many of the merchants had packed up for the night, including Orlaith's father. Yet they could hear drunken singing from the tavern, the occasional acrobat or fire breather bounding past. This was what it was like to live, Bard thought._

_"Why would you think that?" Orlaith turned to glance at him. "Someone has to help Father sell his silks. Especially now that Mother's…"_

_Bard raked a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I just thought…well, I thought you might have come back because…"_

_"Because of you." _

_For a few moments, the two of them were silent, the only sound to be heard the lapping of water against the side of the small boat. Bard lay back and looked at the stars overhead, and wondered if they would have looked the same from Dale. He had never set foot in the old city, but he wanted to. Sometimes he wondered if there truly was a dragon inside the mountain of Erebor. Much to Bard's surprise, Orlaith eased her slender frame down so that she lay beside him._

_"There are more important things than affection, Bard."_

_"I know that, but…you're saying that you feel nothing for me?" Bard inquired, desperate to find out whether Orlaith felt the same. At first it had been a fascination, but upon her return and getting to know her better, Bard knew it was more than just that._

_"You talk too much."_

_Then she pressed her lips to his, and he was surprised, because he had always thought that it would have to be him to make the first move. Bard eagerly shifted closer, just as much of an amateur in this as Orlaith herself was. He put her arms around her, pressing into the small of her back. Her lips were soft against his, and he liked it very much. Bard made to shift his weight and Orlaith moved in turn, but the small boat couldn't take the sudden change of balance, and they were both rolled into the water._

_At first, Bard was worried that Orlaith would be upset with him, that perhaps the slick waters of Laketown would make her shiver and haul herself out. But then the girl threw back her head and laughed, loudly enough to start an acrobat passing by, and to Bard it was more beautiful than the stars in the sky._

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Third Age, 2941

"Clear the table."

Bard quickly shut the door behind Eamon as his friend staggered into the kitchen, still carrying the unconscious blonde girl. Sigrid was startled into action, quickly sweeping the table clear and allowing Eamon to set the girl down as Bard bolted the door, peering outside to make sure no one was watching. He frowned deeply as he watched his friend. Normally he wouldn't allow Eamon to intrude on his home with an unconscious and obviously injured girl, but Eamon was in enough trouble with the Master as it was.

"Where did you find her?" Bard asked of Eamon, inspecting the girl critically. It was difficult to tell her age precisely, but he guessed she was in her late teens or early twenties. Eamon was a scout around Laketown, but he also dabbled in medicines – hence why he was in trouble with Master, because some of the medicines he had dabbled with of late had been less than legal.

Eamon was a sharp, keen fair-haired man a few years younger than Bard. The two were close, both turning blind eyes to the others' somewhat illegal activities. But Eamon was the first person Bard would go to for medical help, so he could not refuse Eamon seeking refuge in his home with this strange, injured girl. Bard knew all too well that the Master had his little spies.

"On the outskirts, injured." Eamon shook his head. The girl's injuries were not fatal, but it looked like she had been in a skirmish. Her clothes were darkly coloured, with her cloak clasp being the only interesting thing about them. It was in the shape of a six-pointed star and shone like silver.

"Da." Bain had entered the kitchen, quickly noting the six-pointed star clasp. Bard could not fault his son for being quick-witted most of the time, but he wished that the boy would mind his own business. He had hoped to conceal the girl's presence from the prying eyes of his children, but Tilda had followed her brother in. "Look at the clasp."

"Not now, Bain." Bard leaned against the bench as Eamon inspected the girl for wounds. They were neither deep, nor seemed to poisoned. A lump on the side of her head indicating how she had come to be in a state of unconsciousness. But who had been her foe? And where was that enemy now? Whoever they were, they hadn't wanted her dead.

The girl stirred under Eamon's prying hands, as Bard watched intently. She opened her eyes, and he stifled a gasp. Her golden blonde hair, dainty features, right down to those cornflower blue eyes…she reminded him of someone he had lost some time ago, someone he had cared about deeply.

_Orlaith._

Before either Bard or Eamon could utter a word, the girl on the table arched her back as if in agony, and unleashed a thin, piercing scream.

* * *

"What's wrong with her?" Bain looked panicked as he inspected the woman writhing on their table, crying out in pain. Eamon cursed and immediately began to inspect her for other wounds. Obviously, they had missed something. Bard helped him hold the young woman down as Eamon jerked her tunic up to reveal a stab wound in her side. He sucked in his breath and looked at Bard.

"She's going to need kingsfoil."

"I'll get some!" Bain piped up, rushing out of the door with some haste. The woman stared up at them with wide, panicked blue eyes, but she had already seemed to establish that they were not enemies. A dagger was strapped to her side, and there was no doubt in Bard's mind that this woman was capable of defending herself. But just who was she, and what had she been doing so close to Laketown?

Eamon busied himself wetting a cloth and wiping the sweat and grime from the woman's brow, but she seemed impatient. Bard still could not quite get over her eerie resemblance to his dead wife. This woman looked so much like Orlaith…but Orlaith had never had any sisters, or cousins. It was impossible. He sucked in his breath, forcing himself to look for differences rather than similarities. She was not Orlaith come back to haunt him.

Although her features were soft, they were more striking than his late wife's. Her eyes were hard and suspicious, her blonde hair done back in long braids that fell to her waist. She looked fierce, and Bard wondered where she might be from. She was certainly human – at least, to his knowledge, for she was neither elf nor dwarf. The woman frowned at Bard's close inspection of her as Eamon cleaned her face.

"What is your name?" Bard inquired.

The woman's voice was hoarse when she spoke. "Cathleen."

"What were you doing so close to Laketown?" Bard asked, but his interrogation was interrupted by the return of Bain, who silently held out the kingsfoil to Eamon. The healer thanked the boy, and set to work washing and grinding the herb. Bard turned expectantly back to Cathleen, whose eyes had fluttered shut.

"I was searching for someone."

"Bard, leave her be," Eamon insisted, glancing up from the herbal mixture he was making up with a frown. "She's injured and no doubt weary. Such questions can surely wait until the morning."

"She is a stranger in my house," Bard argued. Eamon was too easily trusting, when it was obvious that Cathleen could likely kill them if she so desired to. Wounded, she was not a problem. Yet Bard would still like to know her intentions, know if she was a danger to his three children. "I have the right to know who she is and why she's here."

"She's here because I brought her to you." Eamon walked over with the paste, and Cathleen visibly paled. "That's all we need to know for now. I need you and Bain to hold her down; this will sting."

Bain took a hold of the woman's ankles, while Bard held her arms in place. Eamon applied the paste hesitantly to the wound, and Cathleen thrashed and screamed in their grip. It took her a few moments to calm, gritting her teeth against the obvious pain and slackening on the table. She took a few deep breaths, eyes closed. Bard frowned, glancing at his son.

"Watch her. I'll be back."

Bard caught Eamon's arm and led him aside. He did not like the thought of having this woman stay with him until she recovered. Bard did not trust strangers, and he certainly did not trust Cathleen. He remembered that Bain had mentioned the clasp on Cathleen's cloak, and wondered if Eamon would know what it meant. Eamon knew a lot of things that made people scratch their heads.

"Who is she, Eamon?"

"I don't know," Eamon said patiently, realising that Bard was growing frustrated with the lack of answers.

"The clasp on her cloak…"

"Ah." Eamon's expression grew troubled. "That is the symbol of the Rangers of the North."

Bard was astonished. The young woman was Dunedain? She could easily be many years older than he had first expected. They were a sad story, wanderers of the wilderness who spent little time in villages and towns, but rather kept to themselves. They aged more slowly than normal men, and even their women were capable of being fierce warriors. But what could Cathleen be doing in a place like Laketown? Bard didn't think he had ever seen a Ranger here before.

"Did she tell you why she had come?" Bard inquired.

Eamon raked a hand through his hair. "Bard, honestly, I know no more than you do. But I know that Cathleen seems frightened. Whoever was after her…well, I don't think they play nice."  
"Now we've sheltered her, they may come here," Bard grumbled. He did not want to show open animosity towards the young woman, but he was perfectly allowed to be unhappy with her presence, especially when it could get himself and his children into trouble.

"I think they believe the injuries they inflicted would kill her." Eamon shrugged his shoulders. "Otherwise, why would they have left her alone? Something tells me that this woman wasn't travelling alone."

A shiver ran down Bard's spine. If Cathleen had companions, where were they now? He thought he knew the answer. It seemed the young woman Eamon had found was lucky to be alive. The wound in her side had been severe, most likely intended to make her bleed out painfully, dying slowly. Bard sighed and walked back out into the kitchen, where Bain was watching Cathleen warily.

"Well?" Bard inquired of his son. "Has she said anything?"

Bain shook his head. "I think she's asleep."

Bard heaved another sigh and scooped the young woman up in his arms. She was surprisingly light, and smaller than she had first looked in her bulky clothes. He walked over to the couch and set her down gently, putting a blanket over her. She stirred slightly, but otherwise did not react. Bard wondered what he was going to do now, with this strange woman in his house who he did not trust, and who looked hauntingly like Orlaith.

"It's late, I should go." Eamon walked back in, playing with his hands nervously. "If there are any problems, you know where to find me."

Bard was not sure what to say. Thank you seemed wrong – why would he thank Eamon for bringing the strange girl into his home? So instead he just nodded curtly, exhaling and screwing his eyes shut as Eamon departed, closing the door quietly behind him. Bain touched his arm.

"Da? Is everything alright?"

"I'm hoping it will be," Bard replied heavily.


	2. Six Pointed Star

**~ Chapter One: Six-Pointed Star ~**

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A/N: I'm sorry for the re-update, but as you'll notice, most of the content that was in this chapter has been shifted to the prologue. To clear things up, Cathleen is NOT a Ranger. She does have a Ranger's cloak and clasp, but the reasons as to that will be revealed later.

Bard's flashbacks to he and Orlaith will be in italics, whereas Cathleen's flashbacks to her own past will be in bold. Please tell me if you find this too confusing. I want this story to be easy to read.

Please review and let me know what you think :)

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Third Age, 2931

**"Hurry, Cathleen! We need more warm cloths!" **

**The blonde girl swept out of the tent and raced through the series of huts that the somewhat shabbily composed, makeshift town was made up of. The cobblestones bruised and cut the soles of her feet, but now was not the time to worry about such things. Gilraen was in labour, and all that mattered was her child – a boy, if old Faolan's prediction was correct. Some of her people claimed that Faolan was near three hundred years, but Cathleen was not certain whether she believed that or not.**

**Arathorn was not going to be present if he did not hurry home. A scout had been sent to fetch him from his duties, and Cathleen could only hope that he would make it in time to see his newborn child – he and Gilraen's first. Cathleen sprinted into Maeve's hut. The young woman was bent over the hearth, her brown hair lank with sweat as she placed more cloths in the boiling water. She turned from her duties to see Cathleen's rather graceless arrival.**

**"More cloths?" Maeve guessed, noticing the thirteen-year-old dumping the bloodied cloths across the hut. Gilraen had insisted that the girl be present during the birth, and Cathleen had fiercely agreed. She was nearly a woman now, she would not cringe away from the thought of childbirth.**

**"Do you need me to wash these?" Cathleen gestured to the bloodied cloths, but Maeve shook her head vehemently. Cathleen's duty was to attend to Gilraen, not fret about the cloths.**

**"No, you must go and be by Gilraen's side."**

**Cathleen nodded, gathering up the hot, wet cloths that Maeve had recently been boiling and hurrying out from the hut – only to collide with something solid that made her just about drop the cloths. Cathleen's entire face flushed when she found herself looking up at Niall, the young man she was currently fascinated with.**

**"Sorry, little Cat." He offered her that mischievous grin of his that always made her stomach do a flip. Of course, Niall was seventeen, and only saw Cathleen as a child. Yet she hoped that perhaps in another year or so, he would notice her, not just as a friend but as something…more. "I'm interrupting you, aren't I? You are heading to Gilraen's hut, no? Niamh is there."**

**Niamh was Niall's twin, a good friend of Cathleen's. "Yes. I…I know. I saw her."**

**Usually Cathleen would have leapt at the opportunity to speak with Niall, however the hot cloths were heating up her arms and she looked down at them, remembering her duty. Niall noticed too, stepping aside and gesturing to Gilraen's tent.**

**"You had better hurry."**

**Cathleen's bare feet flew over the cobblestones as she hurried back towards Gilraen's tent. Any thoughts of Niall were wiped away by the gravity of these hours of labour. She had to be present for the birth, it was important to Gilraen, to Arathorn. She had to be present for the birth of a boy who would, in the future, change the fate of Middle Earth.**

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Third Age, 2941

By the time Bard rose in the morning, Cathleen was already in the kitchen eating breakfast. She was, to his astonishment, dressed in some of Sigrid's clothes. They were slightly too small, pulling tight at the curves of her breasts and hips. She looked a lot less fierce without blood and grime all over her, tamely eating bread in the kitchen. Sigrid and Tilda bustled around the kitchen, all three females looking over at Bard as he entered.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Bard inquired of Cathleen, who raked her blonde braids out of her face.

"Better," Cathleen stated. He could hear the distinct accent to her voice, although he could not quite describe it.

"While you are here, you're going to pretend that you are my cousin from Rohan." Bard's voice was firm. "You can tell them your name, if you like. But I don't want any trouble."

"I don't seek to cause trouble." Cathleen spoke softly, deliberately. She seemed to pronounce each of her words clearly, as though he might not understand her. She looked up at him with mistrustful blue eyes. "I did not ask to be here."

"You weren't trying to get to Laketown?" Bard inquired disbelievingly.

"I didn't say that." Cathleen set the butter knife down. "I didn't mean to be in your house. I apologise for the inconvenience it has obviously caused, but my only desire was to speak to the Master. There is someone I am looking for, someone I need to find."

"Who?" Bard questioned, curious now. Did Cathleen perhaps seek a sibling, or friend, or lover?

"His name is Estel," Cathleen's tone was nearing impatience. "That is all you need to know."

The name was not familiar to Bard, and the confusion on his face caused Cathleen to smile slightly, as though it had been what she had expected. She pushed herself to her feet, walking over and placing her plate on the sink. She was tall, Bard noted, almost as tall as himself. He leaned forward and gripped her arm, intending to turn her around, but Cathleen spun fast, shoving his hand off her and backing up against the bench.

"I'm sorry," Bard stated, realising his action had startled her, "All I wanted to say was that if you are staying with me, your business is my business."

"I swear to you that no one in your family will be harmed because of my presence." Cathleen released Bard's wrist, which she had been gripping with a bruising tightness. Her blue eyes were narrowed. "I will tell you everything in time, if you prove that I can trust you."

* * *

Cathleen had never been to Esgaroth before. It was a town of grim colours and oily waters, far different to many of the places she had ventured within the past year or so. Her fingers found the six-pointed star that clasped her cloak around her, the only article of clothing that she had insisted she kept – although venturing around the town, she would certainly remove the cloak, or at least the clasp.

It was no surprise to her that Bard thought her to be a Ranger. A small, wry smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It had been her intention, an intention based on the last words of a dying man. Cathleen was certainly no Ranger of the North, but she had known those who were. She removed her fingers from the clasp before she was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and regret. _It wasn't your fault he died,_ she kept telling herself firmly – but was that truth, or what she had to believe in order to carry on?

Cathleen leaned forward, grasping the wood of the balcony firmly as her knees threatened to give way. No tears. She could not cry for what she had lost. She was a strong woman, perhaps not a warrior, but she was strong. She had to be, for how else could she ever hope to find Estel – and Gilraen, for that matter? Cathleen sucked in a deep breath, her eyes locking in on the mountain that loomed in the distance. _Erebor._ There were tales of a treasure long lost, and of a dragon who slumbered within the Lonely Mountain.

The thing that struck Cathleen as the most peculiar was the recognition in Bard's eyes when he had first seen her. It had sent shivers down her spine, for there was the ghost of something lingering there, but what she did not know. His face had momentarily tightened and seemed so haunted – did he think she had not noticed? Perhaps she would ask him, but in turn he would want his own questions answered. Cathleen had been assaulted with questions enough in Mirkwood. The thought of that place left a bitter taste on her tongue.

"Are you really a Ranger?"

The question came from the doorway and made Cathleen whip around, surprised. It was Bard's son – Bain, if she remembered his name correctly. A boy of perhaps fifteen, with wide eyes that seemed to marvel at everything he beheld. Cathleen offered him a tolerant smile.

"Did I say I was?"

"Well, no." Bain looked a little stunned by her response, but once his gaze found the six-pointed star that clasped her cloak firmly around her shoulders, he seemed to regain his confidence. "But I've heard about the Rangers of the North, even if I've never seen one. They all have those star clasps on their cloaks. So I figure if you've got one of those clasps, you _must_ be a Ranger."

Cathleen raked a hand through the numerous thin braids of her hair. She had been about this boy's age when Arathorn had been killed, and she had been separated from Gilraen and little Aragorn – no, Estel. She must not think of him by his birth name, for Gilraen had wanted to conceal that from him until he came of age. Fifteen had been young, but she had hardly been alone. Yet despite the company she had been in, Cathleen had still felt lonely.

The wound in her stomach was healing slowly, but the wounds of the flesh didn't hurt as much as the wounds of her mind. It had only been after she had passed into her twenty-second year that Cathleen had made the decision to find Gilraen and Estel. She needed to know if they were alive. There were, of course, more important reasons for her decision to find them – but those reasons were for Estel's ears alone. However, her choice had cost her the lives of people she cared about deeply. For that, how could there be recompense?

"Were you alone?" Bain inquired, his tone becoming more sympathetic than curious.

"No," Cathleen admitted, her voice more harsh than she had intended. She had been safe in Bree, they all had. They had had _lives_. But always a true Dunedain, such an ordinary life had almost killed her. She had become restless. "But I am now."

She shook away thoughts of the past. _Move forwards, never back._ That was what Arathorn had always told her, something she remembered the first time they had gone hunting together. She had been twelve years old and had cried when they had killed and skinned a rabbit. Arathorn had told that the rabbit was old, unlikely to live much longer in any case. Instead of looking at what the rabbit had once been, Cathleen had looked at what the rabbit had died to become – to satisfy hungry bellies in a harsh winter where meat was scarce.

"Bain, are you disrupting our guest?" Bard stepped outside, folding his arms and giving his son a stern look that made Bain hang his head. As his son trudged inside, Bard raked a hand through his hair, which was beginning to streak with grey, and sighed. "I apologise for his curiosity."

There it was again, the recognition, like he knew her. Yet Cathleen would have remembered if she had met Bard in the past. She did not easily forget names and faces, especially ones that burned regret into the back of her mind. Cathleen averted her eyes, not out of shyness, but because she could not stand seeing such familiarity on his face when everyone she had once known was lost to her in one way or another. The Dunedain were solitary, but Cathleen had never felt more alone.

"You are far from home," Bard stated.

"No," Cathleen tossed her braided hair over her shoulder. "I just haven't found it yet."

The silence between them became awkward. Both had questions that they itched to ask, but couldn't bring themselves to. Cathleen heaved a sigh. If there was no word on Estel in Esgaroth, she would just have to try elsewhere. But whilst the journey had felt worth it in the beginning, with the loss of her friends and companions, her heart was empty. There were no longer stories to share and memories to cherish. Her quest was now her own.

"Who attacked you?" It was Bard who succumbed to curiosity first. "Orcs?"

Cathleen shook her head. It would not have been uncommon – orcs had infested Mirkwood near Dol Guldur. But sometimes it could not be the spawn of evil that could be blamed for every attack. Men were easily swayed, corrupted by the taint of power. She had not lost her companions to orcs, but to men.


End file.
